


too relaxed, perhaps.

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Bondage, Cock Warming, Dom/sub Undertones, Fluff, M/M, POV Bertram "Bertie" Wooster, Sleepiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 07:29:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17845055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Bertie and Jeeves try something new.Bertie makes a slight error.





	too relaxed, perhaps.

I rather like being tied up.

It’s the rummiest thing, but, well, when one is in a state of bondage, somewhat restrained, one can really be… _Free_. One can be utterly relaxed, for one knows one doesn’t have the bother of making one’s own choice of movement. Do you understand me? It’s perhaps a difficult state of affairs to wrap one’s noodle around before one has experienced it first hand, but once one is experiencing it, it all makes sense.

Take this morning.

Jeeves had a veritable mountain of silverware to polish in the kitchen, and I was lingering in his domain. The kitchen is, without dispute, Jeeves’ domain, and I’ve always rather thought of it as such – there is something pleasurable, I think, about stepping into his lair upon invitation, and being in amongst the pleasant smells therein, the lovely eat, the cramped environs. I had entered to needle him about a pair of spats one of the men at the Drones had bought me as a gift – honestly, _I_ don’t much care for them either, but when a well-meaning chap and his wife buy you a pair of spats, you need to wear them _once_ in his presence, at least, just to show him that you think they’re the cat’s knees or the bee’s pyjamas or what have you.

Jeeves, in this case, did _not_ agree, and he got quite… Well, to tell you the truth, he actually got rather _annoyed_ – not at me, you understand, but at said c. and his w. for buying such a revolting accessory to add to the Wooster wardrobe, and he sort of puffed himself up, and _I_ , rather enjoying the way he sort of towered over me, was more than slightly breathless. Even when the anger of Jeeves is directed elsewhere, it is an impressive thing to witness, much like, I expect, thunderstorms on mountaintops and other great, natural shows of power.

And he _looked_ at me, and he sort of _smirked_ , in a way you might think was un-Jeeves-like, if you did not know him as well as I do (and I should hope you don’t!), but made me shiver most delightfully.

I reached out, and I put my hands on his chest, and he leaned in, kissed me, and oh, he kisses so _well_. I had never really kissed anyone, before Jeeves, had never dared: I’d kissed _girls_ , of course, but it isn’t the same, it isn’t entrancing in the way his mouth is, in the way his lips drag rough over mine, in the way his tongue… Well. _Well!_ Enough about Jeeves’ tongue, for if I start on Jeeves’ tongue, I fear I shall never move on from the subject. He kissed me, dragged his hand through my hair and ruffled me up not inconsiderably, made my skin hot beneath the old s. and t., and when I reached up to loosen said t., he stopped me.

“Sir,” he said, seriously. “I have work to do.”

“Oh, _Jeeves_ ,” I oh-Jeevesed, “it’s _unjust_ , to kiss a fellow like that, and then tell him you have work to do, I really—”

And then he kissed me again!

Now, you might think, that’s very cruel of him indeed, to get a fellow all into a lather, and then throw the soap away, but this is a caper of Jeeves’ of which I know, and am rather fond of: he will get me so excited I can scarcely stand it, and then let me sit on it awhile, that I might really _savour_ it, before he allows me release.

I fear, at times, he shall be the death of me, for I know not that my heart will continue to take it, but in the meantime, I shall go readily!

He turned me to face the table, and he drew my hands behind my back: I was in just my shirtsleeves, for it was rather warm in the kitchen, and with a length of rope he ordinarily has to hand for this sort of game, he crossed them over one another and tied them there. He’s excellent with a rope, is my dear Jeeves: he’s a natural sailor, and I think that were I to tell him tomorrow that I had decided to live on the sea for evermore, why, he should be delighted.

Of course, I couldn’t tell him that, for I _do not_ love to roam as he does, but nonetheless!

So there I was, bent slightly over the table, looking down at the silverware, and his hand was moving over my backside, his palm dancing over the plush of my seat and then sliding down my flank, and I said, “I— I say, Jeeves, ah, might I… I should like to…” I trailed off. It is hard, I find, to lend words to such things as these – it is easier, I think, to write them down, but to lend voice to them rather makes me jittery and uncertain, and I begin to stutter and stumble in a way I ordinarily do not.

“Sir?” he asked, breathing hot in my ear.

“ _Oh_ ,” I said, quite plaintively, although I know it is hardly fair to be fair to be plaintive to a fellow when he knows not what you’re being plaintive about, but Jeeves seems to fare well regardless.

“Show me, sir,” he whispered, and I sort of turned, and regarded him, and I would have liked to push him down onto the chair with my hands, but as they were bound against my elbows, it wasn’t really feasible.

“Er, do sit down, Jeeves, would you?” I asked: he did. He sat in the chair drawn back from the table, for the purpose of polishing the silver, and I clumsily dropped down onto my knees. Quick as a flash, he had a clean towel placed neatly beneath them, that I not scuff or bruise them upon the floor of the kitchen, and I exhaled, glancing down at his trousers.

He looked down at me, his eyes glittering with dark purpose as he divined my meaning, and then his hands went to his own trousers. I watched, mouth dry, lips parted, as he unbuttoned his trousers, and his breeches, too, that he might draw himself out, and _oh_ , there are few things in the wide world so beautiful as Jeeves is, when he has his trousers unbuttoned, I don’t mind telling you. Even with said t. done-up, he’s almost unrivalled, but like that, why, he is the most beautiful man, the most beautiful _anything_ , anywhere! I licked the lips, leaning forward, and I dragged my tongue up the length of him, tracing the sort of seam there is on the base of a fellow’s—

I never know what to call it.

A lot of words seem ever so vulgar, even as vulgar as this particular act _is_. But I put myself to work, anyway, nuzzling and licking and nibbling all the way along, encouraging him along to hardness, so that I might feel his tumescence against my lips, and once he was stiff enough for my liking, I moved to the main event, as it were.

I closed my mouth around his crown, laving my tongue at the underside of it, and I tasted him on my tongue: sort of musky, thick with salt, and I hummed, rather putting myself to my task with gusto, but then his hand gripped tight at my hair, holding me still.

I groaned around him: I was quite aroused myself, as I often am when I am able to attend myself to Jeeves’ pleasure, and I looked desperately up at him, his fingers tight in my curls, drawing me slowly down. I relaxed my mouth as best I might, that I should feel him on my tongue, hold him in my mouth, and I had been practising for _weeks_ , for this sort of thing, and I could do it, although he is rather thick, and the jaw does begin to ache if one does this for too long. At the time, however, I wasn’t concerned with the Wooster jaw whatsoever, because there was a sort of dark fire in Jeeves’ eyes that made me sing.

“Don’t distract me,” he instructed softly. It seemed a rather odd thing to say to a fellow when he was wrapped around your member, lips and tongue busy enough that he could not respond, but then he went on, “Just… _Hold_ it. Like that. You look beautiful, sir.”

I moaned softly, unable to stop myself, and my eyes flickered shut. I am ever so weak when Jeeves compliments me in any fashion at all, but especially like this, when we are… Yes. But hold him I did, and I was in awe as he reached over my head, picked up a silver jug, and began to polish it.

It was incredible.

I cannot describe, I do not think, the immense powerlessness I felt in that moment, my hands bound tight against my back, my knees pressed to the floor, and my mouth full up with valet, staring up at him as he got on with his task, as he _worked_. My skin was hot and prickling, and I was _dying_ , so stiff beneath my trousers I thought the stitching might give way. And yet I was not to distract, he said – I was merely to sit here, kneel here, with Jeeves on my tongue, with my cheek rested lightly against his thigh, and oh, it was…

It was unspeakable.

It was _beyond_ me.

I looked up at his face, and he did not look at me, merely continuing on with his work, buffing with strong hands the silver, quite focused, and I wondered what it must feel like, to have a hot tongue beneath one while one was just… doing something _else_. Did Jeeves feel, I wondered, the desperate anticipation I did?

It was impossible to tell, and that only delighted me further, pressed as I was…

It was, truth be told, relaxing, after a while. I felt him on my tongue, softer than before, and I allowed myself to still, to listen to the regular _shhffff-shffff_ of the cloth on the silver, my eyes closed. There was something of the meditative in it, with naught to focus but the heat of Jeeves’ thigh, the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear, and _him_ , in my mouth, filling my tongue…

I truly didn’t _mean_ to, you know. As I said before, there is something freeing in the act of bondage, I think, that rather says to the Wooster corpus, “listen, be relaxed!” and relaxed it is, and relaxed I was.

Too relaxed, perhaps.

When I woke, Jeeves had finished the silverware, and he was petting my hair with mild affection, as if I was some sort of moggy who had stumbled into a situation most unorthodox, and I grunted, looking up at him blearily. Gently, he drew me back from him, and I groaned at the ache in my jaw, falling awkwardly back on my heels as he tucked himself away.

“An activity, sir,” he said softly, reaching out and massaging my jaw with one hand, even as the other nimbly undid the bounds on my gently aching arms, “we ought later revisit.”

“Dashed sorry, Jeeves,” I said, although it came out closer to, “’ashhhe’d so’y, Jees”, or something similar to that. He smiled at me, his expression full of indulgence, and drew me up from the floor, massaging, once he was through with my poor jaw, my poor wrists, and moving on then to the state of my poor knees. I wound my arms about his neck, putting my face there, and said again, “So’y.”

“Quite alright, sir,” he murmured, and he kissed my cheek. “Perhaps we might to bed for an hour or so?”

“Oh, Jees,” I mumbled, pressing our heads together. “Ah shhhhou’ loze to.”

I could probably, I had mused at the time, have fallen asleep much faster had he tied my wrists together, but it struck me it might have been an odd thing to ask for, and besides, as it stood, I could wrap my arms about _him_ instead.


End file.
